


he loves you (don't you see?)

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, abstract bullshit, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't love me, Eren."</p>
<p>And it is not for your dying heart—wilting beneath the bright, burning sun of his crooked smile, then drowning in the dejectedness of his falling expression like rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he loves you (don't you see?)

**Author's Note:**

> This is something from forever ago that I randomly decided to finish lmao. I have no motivation for anything beyond drabble length. (I never do.)

You'd believe his hands to be fire—scorching the browned palms, marring pale skin beneath them to an unrecognizable opaque shade—turning your being to nothing but blackened ash. 

After all, he is a burning star—fiery in disposition and burning in its true brightness—that very same light you'd always felt would be restricted given the opportunity—the chance to feel flickering flames of his fingertips dragging along your spine, licking away at your erratic heartbeat. 

You know that he loves you. The titan shifter—the boy of nearly eighteen, with bright eyes and dark, crooked smiles that you'd like to believe are yours alone. 

He is in love with you.

And the roaring ocean within your ribcage cannot lie—as it crashes to the forefront of your torso, pressure within your chest unbearable, crushing your lungs till you can barely breathe—red roses digging their thorns into your cracking ribs.

You know that you love him too.

* * *

His presence is unrelenting—but at this point you've decided that you no longer mind his constant form off to your side. 

He is a storm with no end—a hurricane with no center. 

And you cannot find it within yourself to find fault in the hand that reaches up, and ruffles your hair, either—though you know that you should. 

He is a single red rose—blooming from previous dead flowers, the ones of those you've loved—disentangling the others caused by his brazen admiration, stuck from the thorns of an unestablished mutual love. 

He is beautiful. 

And you are so in love with him.

* * *

How could you have been so stupid?

He is eighteen. And he is everything—the burning sun, elegant moon, a gasp of breath in the silent night—

His is your everything.

Yet, you were so wrong. 

You are overstepped tea—black, no sugar. And no one enjoys that bitter taste as it burns the back of their throat like a dark curse. 

He could not love you. 

Why would he? When he can have her? —she is everything you are not. Perfect. 

You find that the red rose grows thorns once-more, though ocean waves still crash within you. 

And a storm is on its way.

* * *

It is nearly daybreak when he approaches you with the confession—hands shaking, voice nearly faltering as he speaks. 

And you—for all your intelligence and love for the boy in front of you—cannot find the correct words. 

You suppose you're to be angry with him. He is lying to you, as unreasonable as that is. 

He is another's—or at least it appeared so. 

"You don't love me, Eren."

And it is not for your dying heart—wilting beneath the bright, burning sun of his crooked smile, then drowning in the dejectedness of his falling expression like rain. 

You realize you'd been a coward in wishing to tell him of your love—the love that burns your fingertips as you wish to touch him, hold him. 

The storm has arrived.

Hearts betray those they belong to—in love, and out. 

There is no end in sight. 

And the storm drowns what you've created. 

So then you find that cowardice excusable, for fear of loss and gain, as neither benefit. And with the subtraction of crashing waves among the garden of your wilting ribcage, comes browned shrubs and dying flowers, murdering that feeling created within your very own Eden. Yet—with the gain of an irrevocably returned love, comes chances at loss.

—of the boy, and you yourself.

You had never been good with those.

* * *

He is beautiful—everything. 

And you had been loved by him, once—many years ago.


End file.
